


You Let Me Complicate You

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Animalistic, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The act itself doesn’t feel wrong, so Scott assumes it doesn’t matter if it’s ultimately stress relief, or a reaction to near-death experiences, or an expression of feelings he can’t put into words. It’s not important that they’re probably doing this for different reasons when they get the same result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Let Me Complicate You

Scott can’t even say why they started fucking. It feels wrong that such a fundamental change in their relationship hasn’t been discussed, but, it hasn’t, and it’s been going too long to start talking about it now. The act itself doesn’t feel wrong, so Scott assumes it doesn’t matter if it’s ultimately stress relief, or a reaction to near-death experiences, or an expression of feelings he can’t put into words. It’s not important that they’re probably doing this for different reasons when they get the same result. 

It’s so good having Stiles arching beneath him as he drives in, slow and steady. Amazing to be on his knees, trying to take as much of Stiles’ long, thin cock as he can. Hell, even the rush minute handjobs leave him weak and sated. So he doesn’t worry. Just responds when Stiles gets that look in his eyes, when he slinks up and nips at his jaw. Initiates with a quirk of his eyebrow, a kiss. They snatch as many stolen moments as they can. 

Fucking Stiles is easy in a way nothing else is in his life. Or, at least, he thought it was. Until today. 

They’ve been kissing --- deep, filthy, taking time with it, because whenever he can, Scott chooses to savor. They’re half-undressed; Scott shirtless, Stiles has lost his jeans. And Scott thinks it’s perfect, all shallow breaths and lazy movements, sliding his fingertips up Stiles’ sides and loving the feeling of his soft, hot skin. 

Stiles pulls away, sits up, rests his forearms on his knees. “This isn’t working.”

“It feels like it’s working to me?”

“I just --- I don’t know. Maybe my head’s not in it?”

Stiles twitches like he’s hiding something. He’s purposely avoiding Scott’s gaze, long fingers tapping where they rest. Any second now he’s going to get up, Scott can tell. He’s tensed like a coil ready to spring. 

“Is it something I’ve done?”

Stiles finally looks up. His cheekbones look sharp as he sucks in a breath. “No, Scott, no. It’s more what you don’t do.”

Stiles always does this, laces his kindness with cruelty. He’s too honest not to. It’s been that way as long as Scott can remember --- Stiles will try to pretend for a second, more, but he cracks, and it’s like the simple act of thoughtful effort in the first place has him saying whatever truth he needs to harsher than if he’d said it from the start. 

“What don’t I do?”

“Fuck me like you mean it.”

“I don’t… I don’t get it.”

Stiles starts to shuffle off the bed, boxers riding low on his ass. Scott grabs his arm without thought, clutching hard. Stiles looks back at him with fire in his eyes, but it isn’t anger. He licks his lips as Scott keeps hold, scowls when he lets go. 

“That,” says Stiles with a drawn-out blink. “That’s it. You treat me like I’m breakable. You’re always so gentle, so accommodating. Like I can’t handle more. I ask you to go harder, you’re freaking _tender_.”

Scott frowns. He has to be restrained, has to be cautious, but he also likes taking everything slow, deliberating over every touch. He didn’t know Stiles wasn’t enjoying it as much as he was. He always took the “harder, faster” comments as Stiles needing to say something, anything. God knows that’s what it’s like for him. Didn’t really think he wanted to be rutted into the floor like he said when sex-dazed. 

“You think you could have told me this before?”

“Why? It wouldn’t change anything, would it? You’re afraid of hurting me,” Stiles says, voice quieter than usual. 

“Of course I’m afraid of hurting you. I could slice you in two. Bite out several chunks of your warm, pale flesh. Snap you without a second thought. Yeah, Stiles, you’re breakable,” Scott reasons. He takes a deep breath. “But I’m willing to learn. If you show me what you want.”

“Really?”

And this is it, this has always been the distance between them. Stiles thinking he knows everything about Scott and making up his mind about his reactions before he’s given a chance to react. Most things. Stiles knows most things. Not everything. He doesn’t know how strongly Scott will cling on to them, when it comes down to a single choice. 

Scott stands, grips Stiles’ arm again, digs his nails in a little. “How do we start? What would I do first?” 

“You’d kiss me. Hard. Merciless.”

“Okay.”

Scott waits, but Stiles doesn’t move. He sighs, put upon, agitated in every plane and line. “You’re not even gonna try, Scott?”

“I said I wanted you to show me,” Scott says, measured, like he’s explaining for the fifth time. Might as well be.

“What, you want me to---”

“Fuck me like you mean it.”

There’s color aflame on Stiles’ cheekbones, now, but it isn’t coy. “You have to pay attention.”

“So do you,” Scott says with a playful slide of his hand up Stiles’ forearm. 

Stiles leans in, cradles his jaw, opens his mouth wider as he claims a kiss that’s equal parts brutal and calculating. There’s no finesse to it, only need. Their teeth clack for a second, Stiles bites down on his lower lip, but it feels good in a way Scott’s never had before --- reckless and untamed. Stiles’ hands go everywhere, his thumb brushing hard against his nipple, his fingertips digging into his side. Scott grunts his approval.

He’s pushed back until his knees hit the edge of the bed, shoved until he’s splayed against the cool sheets, Stiles climbing over him long-limbed and possessive. They fit together perfectly and it’s so obvious here, with Stiles’ knees tight against his sides. Scott can’t help but groan again when his hair is grasped, his head angled so Stiles can nip at his neck. Each pressure point of Stiles’ teeth against his skin feels like a message;- _he’s mine, back off_. He knows the marks won’t last. But he’ll still feel them, a phantom brand. He can see why Stiles would want this. 

Stiles is the opposite of mindful as he takes what he wants from Scott. He kisses with single-minded purpose, bites like he’s ravenous, presses like he’s touch-starved. There’s almost too much sensation, nearly too little concern. Stiles is vicious as he lifts Scott’s arm and bites down hard against the muscles of his forearm, teeth wrapping around like Scott is a meal to be eaten. Stiles licks at the raised welts, eyes dark. 

“You’ll bite me,” he says, voice low and hushed. “Just like this, hard enough to bruise, but not break skin, because you have a crazy amount of control, I trust you. A day later, two, I’ll get your teeth marks tattooed right here. A signal that I already belong to someone, that someone already belongs to me.”

Scott tries to speak, can’t. His words are swallowed up by a constricted throat, a swooping kiss. He’s fierce as well, this time. Clutches the back of Stiles’ head and holds him in place. Blood rushes against his eardrums, until all he can hear is his heartbeat and Stiles’, quick like they usually only get during fight or flight. He rolls his hips up, attempting to gain purchase, but Stiles is heavy, though he looks light, and he won’t move far without more coercion.

When Stiles sways away, Scott nudges forward, trying to chase his lips. 

“Hey, there you are,” Stiles says with a grin that Scott can only describe as filled with evil glee. He steals another quick kiss, won’t linger like Scott wants him to. 

“And now,” Stiles says lightly, changing position, “we require complete, unashamed nudity.”

He places Scott’s hands at his hips, fingers stroking softly at the backs of his palms. Scott gets the hint and skims Stiles’ shirt off, watching avidly as his smooth skin and chest hair is revealed. There’s a short scar across one pec, courtesy of Deucalion’s claws. Scott usually avoids looking at it. Stiles must notice his averted eyes, because he presses on the back of Scott’s head, draws him within kissing distance of it. Scott obliges, laving the raised area with an unforgiving lick as Stiles takes off his batman boxer briefs. It tastes like skin and sweat, and he knows he’s imagining the base notes of another wolf, but he licks harder, longer, wanting to erase them anyway.

Stiles helps him wriggle out of his jeans and underwear, still mostly straddling his thighs. It’s a hurried, frantic action that probably looks ridiculous, but feels liberating. He’s so hard already, cock slapping against his abdomen, precome smearing. Stiles looks down their bodies, eyes half-closed, like he’s assessing, analyzing. 

“What would happen next?” Scott asks. 

For the first time in his life he has no idea what Stiles might say. 

“Next, you’d want me begging to be filled,” Stiles says, matter-of-fact. 

He pushes Scott back again with a whispered “stay still”, slides down to his knees. His hands ruthlessly shunt Scott’s thighs apart, until the vee of his legs is wide enough to settle between. His palms curve over his leg muscles in something too hard to be a caress and then he ghosts a kiss over the tip of Scott’s cock. It’s a horrible kind of punishment, having lips right there, not being allowed to look. Stiles’ breath is hot and damp, a promise and a threat all rolled into one. Scott can’t help but raise his hips, digging his fingers into the bed sheets to help, to hinder, to do _something_. 

“You wouldn’t care that I was desperate,” Stiles continues mockingly, lower lip just catching against the underside of Scott’s cock. “Because this is about taking, not giving.”

When Stiles finally slides his mouth over Scott and takes him deep, Scott shouts on an exhale, fingernails extending into claws. Stiles hums around him, a covetous sound that just makes everything worse. And better. So much better. Scott’s close to coming with a simple swirl and pop. Stiles has crammed his mouth full, doesn’t seem to care that Scott’s nudging the back of his throat. He gags, but goes again, deeper. Scott can’t stop himself from trembling, whole body thrumming with exertion, fatigue, power, helplessness. 

And then Stiles edges away and Scott whines. His calves are grasped, violently, his whole body pulled forward. Stiles forces his knees to his chest, ensuring his legs are spread wide. Scott cranes down as far as he can, watches the swish of Stiles’ hair against his forehead. As if sensing his gaze, Stiles looks up, staring at him with something half-glare, half-supplication. He stoops down and licks a broad, wet stripe that has Scott’s eyes rolling back. 

Scott finds it hard to breathe when Stiles licks him open. The insistent pushes of Stiles’ tongue against his hole have him wanting to writhe. It’s relentless, Stiles dipping deep, deeper, thumbs placed so that he’s loosening all of Scott’s resolve, just as effortlessly as he’s loosening his clenched muscles. His chest aches with how much he wants to yell at Stiles to stop torturing him. He doesn’t even care about how hard it is to maintain the perfect position when Stiles doesn’t seem to give a damn that he isn’t holding his legs up anymore. Every time Stiles’ tongue circles and pushes against his rim, he shreds a jagged strip through the bed clothes with his right hand, even as he scrabbles to keep himself the way Stiles wants him with his left. 

There’s a sudden warm drip; spit, it has to be, and then Stiles rests his thumb at his hole. Scott can’t articulate how much he wants Stiles in him already. Not in words. He can’t even arch back onto it, the way he’s lying. He knows that was deliberate.

“This is the only time you’ll be careful and considerate, Scott, when you’re opening me up until I’m wet and slack for you.” 

Stiles sounds wrecked, throaty and half-crazed. He licks around Scott’s rim again, teases gently with his thumb. Scott relaxes, can’t not, eyes stinging as he scrunches them shut. Stiles inches his thumb into him, moving with such exacting force that it makes Scott want more. It’s a pleasure filled kind of pain, the stretch and burn. They don’t usually do this, he doesn’t usually play with himself, and now he’s wondering why. How come he hasn’t wanted this always? He feels so pliable, like Stiles could mold him into anything he wished.

He squirms when Stiles eases back and purposely lowers his legs until his feet are flat against the sheets. Gasps out a “please” that must tell Stiles how little control he truly has. There’s a clatter and a mumbled curse and he just about has presence of mind to realize Stiles is getting the lube they left on the nightstand. 

“Up,” Stiles commands. He slides a hand up over Scott’s hip. “And turn around. I want you on your hands and knees. You --- you’d want me on my hands and knees.”

Scott doesn’t move quickly enough. Stiles urges him with another punishing shove, prodding him until he does as he’s bidden. And Scott wants to please him. He finds it difficult to move when his legs are jelly, that’s all. He stretches his legs out wide as he can, doesn’t manage hands and knees, has to rest his head on his forearms. Stiles moans. It feels like he leans his forehead against Scott’s lower back. 

After a moment, the tongue returns, sinfully hot. Fingers press in, slicker than the thumb. They pull and push and prepare. Scott thinks he must surely be ready by now. He feels wet and open and his tolerance has worn thin. Stiles crooks his fingers up, pulls back, ruts in again and again. The best thing is that this time Scott can match him, so he does, he rolls back into it, snapping his hips with all the energy he can gather. It isn’t elegant, or graceful, and Scott never really thought they’d ever be like this. It hadn’t crossed his mind. 

“Stiles,” he says. Begs. His throat is sore from all the noises he shouldn’t have been making. 

“Yeah. Yeah, wait a second.”

“I can’t, not anymore.”

Stiles skims a palm over the base of his spine. It should be calming, but it’s the opposite. Scott waits, and waits, until he feels the blunt, hot pressure of Stiles’ cock. He’s so grateful he could crumble apart. It takes all his self-will not to latch onto his arm with his teeth, his claws, to draw blood just so he has something else to focus on. 

Stiles doesn’t slide in slowly, inch by wary inch. He doesn’t give Scott time to adjust. He slams his hips forward with a surge that sends Scott forward, then fucks out again just as fast. He fills him up, stretches him out. He doesn’t stop there. His pace is jackrabbit-quick. Scott has to shift position, jab his fingers into the mattress, or he’ll hit against the headboard. Their skin slaps together so hard the sound echoes through the room, a wet smack of flesh against flesh.

“Oh my God, this,” Stiles says, more breath than voice. “You’d remember that you’re half wolf and you’d fuck me like this. Like you can’t help it. Like you’re a slave to your baser instincts.”

Scott doesn’t know how Stiles can keep it up. He’s achingly hard and he’s leaking, muscles twitching with need. All of his senses are alight. The scent of sweat and sex in the air, the bitten off grunts and sobs Stiles makes with each push inwards, the visceral sensation of every thrust, every stab. It’s overwhelming. Stiles hits Scott’s prostate, time and time again. It’s constant, unrelenting. But he can’t come without his cock being touched, no matter how tight his balls feel, and his claws are too sharp for him to even want to attempt it, so all he can do is try not to break apart.

He clenches down, shudders. Stiles grips his hips tight enough he knows he’d bruise, if he could. Another brand he’ll remember, another claim. Then, as if he can tell he’s breaking apart at the seams, Stiles slips his right hand over his hip, wraps his fist around his cock and tugs. 

It takes a few shamefully quick strokes before everything goes taut and Scott’s coming, hard, ropes of come jetting over Stiles’ knuckles and onto the sweat-soaked sheets. He’s dimly aware Stiles is still driving in, taking what Scott’s already given. It’s a little painful again, he feels sore, but he wants it, wants to make Stiles feel as worn out and used as he does, because it’s the best feeling he’s ever experienced. 

Stiles stills, fingernails scrabbling at his sides. He pumps in two more times before he slumps down over Scott’s back with a panting grunt. Scott spreads out over the bed, not remotely worried that he’s pressed against wet bedding. Stiles is fever-hot, solid, sweaty. Scott loves it. 

He dozes, not wanting to move a muscle. The aches and pain don’t last, but the lethargy does. He thinks he could lie here forever, wrapped up in heat and physical affection. But Stiles gets up eventually, can never be counted on to stay in one place for too long. Scott rolls over, sweeps an arm above his head. Stiles returns with a washcloth slung over his shoulder and two glasses of water that he puts on the nightstand.

He’s unnaturally cautious when he sits back on the bed, like there’s a question on his lips that’s making him nervous. Scott wants to allay his fears, but he doesn’t know what he’s going to be asked, and has no clue if his answer’s right. 

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No. And even if you had, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, I have this special ability to heal. As someone I know very well would say, it’s a precious and lifesaving skill.”

Stiles’ gaze slides to the side. “I meant your feelings.”

“Oh.” _Oh_. It’s a good question. A difficult one. Scott doesn’t know how to respond for a moment, isn’t sure the level of truth Stiles is seeking. “Kinda, yeah.” 

Stiles sighs, throat working as he swallows down something that looks distressingly like guilt. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s just --- I want you because you keep me human, you want me because I’m not. How do we get over that?”

“We don’t. We compromise,” Stiles says, like it’s simple, common-sense. Maybe it is. “And you have made this very black and white, dude. It’s not one or the other, okay? I’m not saying I always want you to be rough. I don’t only want your instinctive side. I want everything.”

Stiles’ greed shouldn’t be a comfort. It shouldn’t make him want to smile. It is. It does. 

“I want your everything too,” Scott says. He shrugs. “And now you’re just gonna mock me because I’m being sappy.” He puts his hands up, fashions his fingers into mock claws. “Grr.”

Stiles gives him the fond expression that Scott’s known and loved for years. It’s a sarcastic roll of his eyes that ends with a lop-sided smirk, lips softened. “Everything,” he repeats, bending forward and kissing Scott softly, a barely there brush that's almost too sweet. 

Scott responds with a playful bite to his lower lip.


End file.
